Pure of Heart and Body
by Borys68
Summary: A nineteen year old youth from Flanders finds himself in ... he does not know where. He only knows that he is in a fantasy world with humans, elves and goblins. Over three years he has created a niche for himself and life runs an established course when one day he makes acquaintance with elven twins ... A slight AU, BiME, potentially Xth Walker or 29th Grey Company member. Romance.
1. Chapter 1

Lodewijk Smidje regained consciousness. He wished he could lose it again. He had the Mother of Hangovers and his skin hurt from perspiring. He had drunk himself to oblivion out of self pity over his lack of love life and own stupidity. He was sure he was somewhere quite high in the queue for Darwin's Prize ...

The previous evening he had gone on a date with that pleasant girl, Marie-Claudine. After establishing that he voted Vlaams Belang, while she Socialistische Partij, they put political discussion off limits and simply enjoyed the evening. Although he considered the movie to be beyond stupid he benignly suffered it because he could hear her laughter at his side. And he saw her eyes twinkle. This felt Good. He then walked her home. She asked him to come in and help her put some heavy items on top shelves beyond her reach. Being almost 190cm tall next to a pretty girl felt Good too. While he rearranged the shelves Marie-Claudine changed to some sort of sleepwear. Lodewijk tried very hard not to stare at the garment (which began too low and ended too high) but took the hint – she was ready to turn in so said goodnight and left. See looked dejected, though. Half way home enlightenment struck ...  
He went to an all night store and hit the beach with an armful of bottles.  
He could hear the sound of running water and felt damp in all sorts of places. Had he pissed himself in his blackout ... had the tide run in?

He sat up and once the black spots in front of his eyes had ceased their dance he looked around. No, the tide had not run in. He was on a beach and sitting in shallow stream of water weeping from the side of a cliff. A cliff? There are no cliffs in Flanders ...

GROAN

Some fucking jokers found him – passed out – on the beach in Zeebrugge and drove him into France! A fantastic joke.

GROAN

He examined his mobile with a squinty eye – it was dripping wet and unsurprisingly not working. He groaned again.

Lodewijk walked on all fours – it seemed a jolly good idea at this moment - upstream of the water seeping from the rocks. YES! There was a shallow puddle! He drank deeply and greedily. Feeling the liquid sloshing in his belly he collapsed on his side and was instantly asleep again.

He was awakened by his ribs being poked with some blunt tipped object.

_Must be some sort of beach warden_.

"Rot op!"

The poking continued

"ROT OP!"

No effect - POKE, POKE

He remembered – he was in France.

"Va te faire enculer!" – he snarled

POKE, POKE

"Fuck off!" – he went polyglot. Everybody knows "fuck off!" – don't they?

POKE, POKE

He turned his head upwards to look at who was bothering him. The sight made him flip over and scramble away on all fours, belly up, into the weep. He was looking at someone who was not human! LARPers were not THAT good. And they did not GLOW. It was a fucking elf! He had played enough video games to know how an elf looked like. Shit – his favourite band was called Ithilien and he even knew why! And he was looking at and elf and ... at two other elves!

The tension made him throw up into the weep.

The elves talked to him in several languages. He talked back to the elves in several languages too. None worked.

The next days were a blur – he recovered from his hangover but got diarrhoea - from the water, he supposed. He always got loose bowels when at a new place. The elves led him somewhere, they even showed him to people in some village. No language worked – again. The men and women – all rather dirty like and smelly – just shook their heads looking at him. Their gestures send the message "no" to something or other. The elves rolled up his sleeves and pointed to his muscles making him fell he was being auction off or – judging by the unimpressed faces of the locals – dumped on unwilling takers. The elves failed to unload him. Lodewijk did not know was it good or bad for him.

At one point his suddenly agitated escorts left him alone, gesticulating to him not to go anywhere. Not that he had anywhere to run – but Lodewijk supposed the elves did not know that. They even gave him a knife. They came back several hours later and led him to a partly burnt village. The elves had apparently managed to save part of the inhabitants. Lodewijk was put on corpse gathering detail. The short, elementary school children size, very ugly human looking creatures must have been orcs. _Yrch_ he heard the elves say, so that must mean orc. Pretty they weren't and their fatal wounds did not add to their beauty. But the bodies of the humans – men, women and children – were worse. Some were mutilated, some bore signs of torture. He puked and wept and carried the bodies to dump into a freshly dug pit. The orcs he helped stack and burn.

The three elves now led him and the survivors through the wilderness. He surprisingly had much strength (_was it from the elf biscuits?_), diarrhoea having passed, so he helped the refugees with their belongings or children. The elves again tried to dump him with the refugees at the next village but the locals refused to take him in.

By that second village he had recovered his wits. He realised that he was in some sort of fantasy world. Which one? He did not know. He had seen Lotr and The Hobbit and Narnia and Avatar the Last Airbender and Dungeons and Dragons and – through a geek acquaintance – Willow and some other older titles. He was not much for reading but he also had played a shitload of CRPG and online MMORPGS – Elder Scrolls? Neverwinter? WOW – probably not – orcs too small and elven ears too short. Maybe it was Warhammer – the brutal killers would be goblins and the ear size was a good match.

But he decided to keep his mouth shut and not ask or reveal anything in attempts to establish which world he might be in. He had no idea whether mentioning Elminster, Gandalf, Sigmar, Conan, Bavmorda or Dumbledore would get him killed or treated better. For all he knew he might be in Warhammer during the Three Emperors period and swearing by Ulrik or Sigmar to the wrong people would get him gutted on the spot. He also had some knowledge of the benefits of silence in parallel worlds from an unexpected source.

One day he founding a side splitting story on his older sister's laptop – his own having died to a coke-on-keyboard accident – his sister had dropped into the Lotr movies, her burnt out by perms lanky hair suddenly became a lush ass length cascade of darkness, her occasionally zit graced face became porcelain smooth, she transformed into an elf, learned to sing and fight ninja style with two swords. Lodewijk read on fascinated by all the bullshit about dresses and hair colour Amarilvalaien – or something like that – seemed to be obsessed about. Legolas hit on his sister although initially she had hated him, but his love made her heart and core – _what core_? – melt and they married and she gave the elven prince her maidenhood. He snorted – he was fairly sure that in RL she had given it to Olivier De Graap from her class while on a school trip.

Poking around the web he found an entire site of such drivel. Lodewijk had then laughed himself silly at heliotrope orbs or slate spheres for eyes (_people really had violet eyes?_), page long descriptions of dresses, eye colour, hairstyles, problems with breathing when a certain blond elven prince – in some stories substituted by a certain blond dwarf prince or grumpy majestic dwarf or rugged ranger – brushed the girl's finger tips. In the boring, less funny ones which he skimmed and quickly abandoned Lodewijk noticed that shouting "Sauron" or "Voldemort" at the _wrong_ sort of locals made them hostile, and that revealing future events could cause "butterflies", meaning that future events may change and not necessarily for the better.

So, even though he kept on comparing what he saw with the fantasy worlds he knew, Lodewijk did not take any steps to establish which world it might be. Not getting chopped into tiny bits over what he might know seemed like a good starting point for a plan of action. Or rather inaction in his case. He let himself be carried along by events. There was not much else he could do.

* * *

AN:

I hope all Belgians and Flamands in particular will forgive me ...


	2. Chapter 2

He finally ended up in an elven town by the sea. The town had mountains at the back and a bay in front. He knew it was a bay as he could see mountains behind the stretch of water. And he could see that the cottage industry of the place was making fishing boats. Oddly enough he could see very few sails in the bay, with many boats being almost finished and stored in sheds. But – as he later discovered - fish was on the menu. French fries were not, sadly.

He was taken before some higher-ups of the elf grunts who had found him. The higher ups examined him, tried their language skills on him but without success. Finally he was presented to their leader, he guessed, as everybody deferred to him. Funny enough that elf had a beard and was kind of older looking than the rest. And a very piercing gaze – as if he had seen millennia pass before his eyes. The bearded guy said something, which must had been very wise, as all the other elves solemnly nodded and furrowed their brows. He got an elven name from the geezer at that point – Esgaron. He tried to tell them that he was Lodewijk but they refused to call him that. His lack of language besides, he quickly learnt that trying to make an elf do something he or she was not inclined to was like arguing with a wall. To the elves he was _Esgaron_ - period.

Lodewijk guessed that the "boss" must have passed some sort of acceptance of him. He was issued simple clothing and was put to simple tasks to earn his keep. Wonderful! He has just become a "guest worker"! Exactly the type of person he wanted to get his country rid off! But unlike the ungrateful bastards refusing to learn Flemish he will show the decency of learning the language and respect the culture of those who had taken him in. And work he will! No welfare tourism for him! He was relieved that he had no impression that was stealing jobs from any of the elves in the settlement. To the contrary, they were happy to accept his help or dump the whole job on him.

In a search for doing something useful he drifted to the forge. He knew something about working with metal, he was a qualified welder after all. Even if fresh out of school. Knowing some of the theory of metallurgy and metalworking – oh why had he been less than diligent in school - was one thing, for course, while seeing it done with charcoal and hammer – another. Yet still it fascinated him and by the fact that he was always around he got himself roped into a sort of apprenticeship – he worked the bellows, he fetched and carried, performing various tasks if these could be communicated by gestures or the words he knew.

He learnt to communicate with gestures and felt that he must look like one of the Arabs or South or Eastern Europeans always widely waving their arms about while they talked. He also took to drawing to get his point across – he was astonished how useful stick figures and web emoticons were! Pointing at objects or making suggestive gestures and issuing "yyhhh?" noises and raising eyebrows expanded his vocabulary and slowly he began to know better what was expected from him. Life fell into a sort of rut. At night he wept, trying to keep it as silent as possible, over the loss of his parents, sister, friends, his entire life. Taking a dump by candlelight never failed to emphasise how alien the place he was now was compared with Flanders 2012 AD.

Lodewijk quickly noticed that the elves spoke at least two languages among themselves. How very much like home! He suppressed a sob and swallowed to clear his constricted throat. To keep his mind off "home" he tried to find a pattern – did the speakers of the two languages look different? There was some, with the taller and darker haired ones speaking one language, the shorter and lighter haired ones speaking another. The taller ones also all spoke the other language, but this did not work the other way. The shorter ones – which in this case meant that most males were around his height or a little shorter, that is, only spoke one of the elven tongues. Intriguing!

The elves were alien. They had an inner glow and moved with a grace beyond human capability. And they were strong. While helping out in the kitchen Lodewijk tried to help the weaker sex by shifting loads which he later saw the ellith (even if he could not speak elfish, over time he learned quite a few words) were fully capable of moving on their own. The blacksmith was astonishing strong – when hammering something together he tried to match his rhythm but soon fell by the wayside, exhausted. The best he could do, three years later, was one WHANG to three Camaenor's – the smith's - BANGS. The most astonishing thing - so weird that he noticed it afdter a few weeks - was that there were NO children of any sort in the town.

The men and women visiting Mithlond – as the town's name was - also seemed to be of two varieties. Shorter ones, with the men up to about 170cm he'd say, were of various body types and hair or eye colour. These spoke one yet another language but many elves seemed to know it. So, he catalogued it as language number three. And there was another group of men, less numerous then the first and highly distinct. Besides differing in dress these "other guys" often were his height and of boringly uniform appearance – dark brown to black hair, strait-ish, blue to grey eyes, high cheek bones. Those men - he had yet to see a woman with them – looked liked brothers. Were they all related? This bunch spoke both the language of the shorter men, or the one in broader use among the elves also.

He was relieved that – as far as he could tell so far - there were so few languages in circulation. Lodewijk spoke three languages with some degree of fluency – nothing exceptional by Belgian standards - and could identify several more by the ear. The Arabic of the Moroccans, German, the sh-ch-sh languages of the Poles or some other central European bunch, Spanish or Italian.

Lodewijk caught on that the elves were teaching him the "third language", the one they used in contacts with Men. Fair enough, he mused. At some point they finally will find some group of men willing to take him off their hands and turn him out into the world so making him learn the "mannish" language would make sense.

* * *

AN:

Ellith - she elves

Ellyn - he elves

Adan - male of 2nd rate Men


	3. Chapter 3

Watching the patrols go out made him think of the butchered remains he had seen when he was on corpse disposal detail at the burned village. He never wanted to see such a thing again. _Yrch_, the elves had said. But regardless of his wishes such things happened, just like they did on Earth. Yet these elves were doing something about it, unlike the UN in Bosnia or Rwanda (or was it Burundi?). And hearing about it and seeing some sanitised TV footage was totally different from actually carrying raped women and mutilated children to their graves. Such things should NOT happen. Even if he did not know these people personally he had parents and a sister and he would not wish this happening to them. He couldn't do a thing about such things back home so he just pushed such events from his mind. But _here_ he felt that he could do something about it - so he _should_. He could put his size and strength between the Yrch and the women and children. He was an unexpected addition to this world and he would not be missed.

As naturally there was no Mass to attend he took to praying on Sundays. On what he thought were Sundays, at least. After finally working out that the Elves followed an eight day week he began to keep his own calendar, marking off the days and keeping the seventh day special. After his old clothes were gone this was one of the last things he kept of his old life. Bank card, mobile, keys, First Communion medallion with the Virgin Mary, some coins.

* * *

"I wish to speak of Esgaron, my Lord".

"Any trouble?"

"No, my Lord. To the contrary. He is surprisingly useful and adept, for an _adan_, that is. He particularly likes to help at the forge. Esgaron evidently has worked with metal before as occasionally he gives off the impression that he knows what he is doing. Yet at other times he is like an elfling learning not to touch hot things. But considering how many willing helpers Camaenor gets he is more than happy to have him around."

The lord nodded.

"Very good. The_ adan_ finding a craft will make it possible to send him away to some settlement of Men. This is no place for him."

"He also is trying to learn to ride and helps in the stables and I think he would like to learn to fight." – Remon resumed his report.

The elf presented a piece of wood with a drawing of several riders. There were three armed elves – this being clear from their donkey-size pointed ears – and an _adan_ – identified by big round ears. The next drawing showed the same elves on foot, fighting with what could only be _yrch_, judging by their height and lack of beards, while the figure with big round ears was holding the horses.

"His gestures were clear enough – he'd be the one holding the horses." – the elf said to his superior.

"Very sensible, I'd say, considering he barely knows one end of a sword from another. What should I do about this request?" – Remon concluded his report and asked for instructions.

"He has a point. He can hold the horses and free a warrior for another task. But show him how to use a sword, even if to defend himself. How's his language improving?"

"Slowly. But his skill in communicating with drawn images is extraordinary."

The bearded elf lord considered what they knew about this mysteriously appeared _adan_. Esgaron looked like a Secondborn from beyond the Hithaeglir and claimed not to remember anything before being found on the beach. Or only a little, if they understood his gestures and crude drawings correctly. Was he hiding something? Was he – as the Elvenlord suspected – freshly enslaved and had jumped overboard from a pirate's vessel returning from a venture into the northern waters?

And there was something very, very odd about this _adan's fea_. It was different to anything he had seen during all his time on these shores. He would even say it was _alien_. Should he send this Man to his peers for inspection? He decided against it. The millenia old lord did not feel any threat from Esgaron. And the issue should resolve itself soon enough – in a mere forty or fifty years the _adan_ will be dead anyway.

* * *

And so first one, then another winter had passed. And then another. Lodewijk fell into a routine. Work at the forge, train with sword and bow, help out with other chores, ride out on patrol. As he himself had suggested he became the horse handler when the elves dismounted and checked out things on foot. But he had seen combat too, when a few _Yrch_ had gone around the elves and decided to snack on horseflesh. He had barely survived his first encounter. He was slow, clumsy, terrified to the point of "freezing" in front of his enemies. Lodewijk was saved by the horses trampling the remaining two orcs so he swore never to eat horses again. His refusal of this delicacy at the spring equinox parties was shrugged off as some mannish peculiarity. The following skirmishes went better for him – his growing skill with arms and experience began to show.

He had never been so fit in his life. Between weapon training, working the forge and horse riding - and no junk food – Lodewijk now had the body his bodybuilding buddies would kill for. He was sure that at the beach in Zeebrugge he'd be swarmed by girls. He sighed ... there were no girls here. The Men showing up to trade kept their women close and the ellith showed no interest in him. Thinking of it, they did not seem to show much interest in the ellyn either. And vice versa. To his relief he did not notice any same sex couples. The yucky fanfics were wrong!

Whatever universe this was these elves were definitely not the swinging type. The wildest sexual behaviour he had seen were pecks on the cheek and embracing. Holding hands and walking around in the dark on moonless and cloudless nights seemed to be a popular dating activity, though. Not that he himself could see anything in such conditions. He was hoping for the ellith to dance naked in the moonlight but then remembered that was the Drow who did that – and this bunch looked like anything but Drizzt Do'Urden cousins.

So he did not push his luck and was very guarded with females of either race. What if either the elves or the local Men were like the Muslim immigrants where looking at a girl for too long could get one – and the girl as well – in serious trouble, to the point of getting killed even? He did not stare, kept his eyes down and his hands to himself. Having language skills on a "Me Tarzan You Jane" level also limited his interaction with the fairer sex and practically ruled out flirting.

* * *

During an up to that point unremarkable patrol his "section" ran into a larger group of Men – the taller, dark haired and Elfish speaking ones – tracking the same group of bandits as they had. A several day long chase in the cold and drizzle of the spring ended with the butchering of the mixed band of men and orcs. The next day finally brought sunny and warm weather and all – elf and Man alike – gladly threw off the hoods of their cloaks. The cold resistant elves (Lodewijk had seen drunk elves of either sex build snowmen in their undies and show no negative signs afterwards) shed their cloaks entirely.

Suddenly Lodewijk thought he was seeing double. He blinked but he was not – these were identical twins! Two of the Men actually were elves and twins at that. So elves also had them, he thought. Sometime later while sitting at the fire and looking at those two additions to their party he noticed that the newcomers looked different to the folk he had been living with for three years. Less glowy, less flowy in their movements, louder when they walked, a hint of 5 o'clock shadow on their cheeks. A squareish face, not triangular as seemed to be the norm among the pointy eared ones. The words "elves" and "twins" dredged up a memory. In those awful fics his sister and those other girls wrote there had been twins. He unconsciously whispered to himself:

"The Twins. The sons of Elrond."

The head of the twin closer to him shot up and turned to him with surprise.

"Shit! He had said that out loud!"

The elf barked something to his brother and both sprang in his direction, murder in their eyes and a knife in their hand.

"_HUITO_! They must've inherited elven hearing in full!" – he managed to think before the snarling duo was in his face.

* * *

AN:

Fea - soul

Huito - fuck in Sindarin

Ellith - she elves

Ellyn - he elves

Adan - male of 2nd rate Men


	4. Chapter 4

Lodewijk froze under the panting elf. The brothers had pounced on him and interrogated him harshly. He kept to his story – he did not remember whence he came, he did not remember anything before being washed up on the coast of Forlindon. As to how did he know they were the sons of Elrond? He fell back on another lie prepared long ago – he had a dream where he had seen them and that it was the dream who said who they were. Lodewijk felt he was lucky in having had thought out his legend beforehand – having a knife on his throat was not conducive to thinking.

After the duo, giving him an evil glare, left him for an agitated conference with "his" elves Lodewijk slowly regained his composure. So he was in LotR after all. He automatically checked himself for an ass length cascade of molten darkness but thankfully his lanky reddish-blond was just as it should be – lanky, strawberry blond and a centimetre long. Due to an absolute lack of razors at Mithlond Lodewijk had to keep his hair short – the way he liked it – with scissors. He missed his buzzcuts or shaved head. His beard was of similar short length.

A week later he was heading eastwards together with the Twins and – now he knew how to call them - the Rangers. It felt nice to be able to put proper names to things. Plus Galdor, an elf from Mithlond, the only person he knew in this company. Lodewijk had been told that he was being taken to "Karningul", whatever that might be, to be shown to the Lord Elrond. This was exciting! But it also made him nervous – what had they noticed about him to make such a big shot like Elrond to leave Rivendell and go to that Karingul place to see _him_?

Or maybe Rivendell was a secret place? – the dwarves had to use a tunnel to get to it, after all ... or maybe after the dwarves had been there they no longer let uninvited insiders in? He had watched the EE of The Hobbit and seen what pigs the dwarves had been. Just like the worst type of immigrants – shitting in public fountains, littering wherever they go, noisy neighbours, and probably fishing the carps from ponds in public parks and clubbing the ducks and swans for home consumption too. In Elrond's place he'd introduce a non-Schengen policy himself! If the riff-raff make indoor campfires with furniture it is "back to sender" with them! Although the Flamand had to admit that some tourists were just as bad.

After an uneventful two week brisk ride Lodewijk finally saw a town. They rode through the wilds, with the Rangers occasionally buying food at villages they passed by. By now he had accustomed himself to the emptiness of this land. So different from home ...

In Flanders it was practically impossible to find a place without some signs of habitation, meh, finding a place without some evidence of human activity was well neigh impossible. Here getting from village to villages took days of hard riding. The land was usually rolling with often some higher ranges of hills visible – sometimes to the north, sometimes to the south. After almost two weeks they arrived at a filthy little town under a high hill. It was surrounded by a moat and hedge, with entrance through guarded gates collecting a toll.

That's where he saw the Halflings ... this dissipated any lingering doubts about the setting. The halflings – or hobbits, whatever – looked just like they should. Tick curly hair, big meaty ears with a small point (why so small?). He didn't get to compare their height to his as the bunch of nutters he was travelling with simply rode through. Some of the Rangers did hang back and caught up with them just outside the second gate with freshly bought supplies. Sheesh – what hardcore campers ...

A day after leaving Bree they made rest at a ruined building, probably an inn. The next day he was roused sooner that usual and told to expect "a long day". Soon after moving out the whole group was assaulted by sort of mosquitoes or other flying blood suckers. Besides the discomfort caused by the bloodsuckers they all struggled with their horses, equally discomforted, so no sight seeing that day. Nevertheless he thought he glimpsed some ruins and remnants of canals to his right. They rode into the night that day as to exit the danger zone and camped below the ruins of a castle on a hill just to the north of the road, the final promontory of a north to south range.

After another two weeks through relatively flat terrain they reached a stone bridge over a wild river in a deep ravine. It was "The Last Bridge". Lodewijk shrugged – by his count it was the first bridge they were to cross during their journey. In the distance he could see the mountains, a chain running all across the horizon. Three weeks later, after passing some picturesque ruins and going off the road for the last few days they arrived at Karningul. It was beautiful! Like a Swiss village, elven style, with lots of waterfalls in it.

After a few days of rest but no recreation he finally was summoned for the inevitable interrogation. Lodewijk was devastated by Lord Elrond not looking anything like Agent Smith.

The interrogation lasted an hour or so, most of his answers being "I don't remember" or "I don't know". Some of the questions were answered by Galdor.

Elrond had a gaze similar to Kirdan, the bearded elf. The sort of gaze which drilled one through, Lodewijk thought. He finally explained that he had a dream with two warriors who were the sons of Elrond. And that his daughter Arwen ...

While he was being shaken by Elrohir how did he come to know about their sister Lodewijk cursed himself for blurting out any unnecessary knowledge.

Here again he ascribed it to a dream, which he was ordered to recount.

He half closed his eyes and forced himself to recall those images from the first movie. Under the murderous glares of the Twins he stuttered:

"... and she stood upon her horse, across the ford from the pursuing enemy ... and she said ... and she said ..."

Lodewijk could see the scene in his head and could _almost_ hear the words she said.

YES!

"You're an inspiration for birth control!"

NO! That wasn't that! Thank God he hadn't said that out loud! Think harder!

"... and she said ..."

He was sweating profusely at this point. It seemed very important for the elves for him to remember what she had said.

"Oh, God Almighty and Holy Mary, what did she say then?!"

His prayer was answered!

YES!

"She drew her sword with a "zwing" sound and boldly called to the enemy" – here he brought his voice up to sound more like girl and growled –

"Come ... get ... some!"

Seeing the twitching mouths of the brothers made him start upon his farewell to God, but instead of another attack of fury he was bouldered over by

BUAHAHAHA

and

MUAHAHAHA

Coming from the Twins.

"Arwen! Sword! I'll never! Maybe mace!? I'll pee!" was what he managed to catch from not very coherent Sindarin coming from the two Princes. They were red in the face, bent over, wobbling about as if their knees had no strength to carry them, holding their bellies and bellowing in laughter. They gasped something out to one another or looked at him and laughed all the harder. They finally collapsed on the floor yet still howled with merriment and had tear streaked cheeks. Their father also looked amused, but whether at their merriment or at what Lodewijk had said or both was unclear.

"You see, Esgaron, my daughter is not exactly a warrior." – the elven lord explained.


	5. Chapter 5

A few days later Lodewijk was once again subject to sniffing by Elrond and Gandalf. But to no effect. The Grey Wizard spoke with a wise expression on his face of "everything having a reason" and "the Valar doing things which the Little People will understand only when the times comes to make their purpose apparent". Hmpf! Lodewijk used to hear pretty much the same stuff at funerals at his parish Church. Gandalf even looked a bit like a White Cleric. But only a bit. Gandalf was a poster-boy for Fighter-Mage - tall old man with long gray hair, in grey robes, with a staff plus a big sword at his side and no armour.

Of course – Lodewijk was getting used to it - Gandalf was not called Gandalf but Mithrandir – but this name Lodewijk knew. It seemed that PJ did get things right occasionally. In Minas Tirith the two old codgers had trash-talked one another – he well recalled the hiss of "Meesrandeer, for all your subtlety you have no wisdom!". That was a funny scene!

The elf that had come from Mithlond with him, Galdor, left without speaking a word to him. Thus he came to be stranded at Kuningudul – also called Imladris. As ever most elves ignored his existence. So he busied himself with recreating the sort of life he had at the sea side. Being fairly fluent in Westron helped. One of the local smiths even turned out to be some kind of Camaenor's cousin and quite gladly took have him in as an apprentice of sorts.

After a few weeks a chance encounter had Lodewijk reeling. The small discovery was that this WAS Rivendell. The bigger discovery was ...

Lodewijk gapped open mouthed at the metre high creature. It was middle aged and was no dwarf – it was barefoot and had hair on top of his feet.

"Don't just stand there, my dear lad. Say something! Even a "Good day to you" would suffice, I suppose. Or are you trying to catch a fly with your mouth?".

He managed to croak out

"Bilbo ... Baggins ..."

"Well, well. So I see you've heard about me from the elves." – the creature was evidently pleased.

"You got half of my name half right – it's Bilba Labingi. At your service" – here the Bilbo/Bilba person gave him a small bow.

"And whom you might by, my dear lad?"

"Esgaron. ... the elves call me Esgaron ..."

So he was at Rivendell before the Lord of the Rings movies ... This gave him some sleepless nights over his knowledge. But then again so much was different between the movies (or what he remembered from them) and what was around him that he was no longer sure whether his knowledge was worth anything. The fundamentals probably were – or were they? With Arwen not being "much of a warrior" this meant that it was not she who had ridden out for Frodo (if he was called Frodo) – then who? Had ANYBODY ridden out or was that PJ twisting the plot? Lodewijk finally fell asleep when the sun was rising.

* * *

"Since we had plied our troth over thirty years ago I have been thinking about leading a mortal's life, of having children, a home, a husband. I've made full sets of baby clothes for a boy and a girl. And swaddling. And with spares too. I learned to cook. And what have YOU done over these years to bring our union closer? Running around in the woods and looking like the pig shat you out?"

"You don't understand ..."

"Of course I don't understand! You never tell me anything! So tell me so that I DO understand! What are you doing to fulfil the crazy conditions imposed by my father?"

"I work for the future of all the Free Peoples ..."

"So how about working for the future of you and me for change?"

"I protect the whole North from the workings of the Enemy! What more do you think I should do?"

"How am I supposed to know? I'm only an woman! It is you who were taught to do manly and kingly things! You should KNOW what to do! You simply no longer care about me, that's what!"

* * *

Besides acquainting himself with the smiths Lodewijk tried to get involved with patrols. That was rebuffed. He sighed – so he was an outsider and not to trusted. Quite natural. The Twins, however, apparently aware of his desires, one day barked at him to move out with them and some other elves. This set out the pattern - he was not on the patrolling schedule but when scouts noticed orcs or suspect men he was taken along for the slaughter.

Accidently this also provided him with a source of income. He collected any steel items the enemy might have and practiced his skills on them. A Ranger whose horse he was shoeing noticed the knives he made from orcish sabres and bought some for his wife. Lodewijk soon was churning out knives and other items for the _Dunedain_. Otherwise these blokes kept their distance to him. He did get to know Aragorn though. Not that anybody called him that! The give away was that the Rangers deferred to him. But his Westron was good enough by this point to be able to work out his nickname – Strider. Pretty much like the movies, tall, taller than him, a killer with sword and bow.

But what a slob! Lodewijk was no bed of daisies himself after several weeks in the wild, but he sprinted to a bath the moment he was back. Apparently Aragorn had to sleep in his filth first and bath the next day. Withdrawal symptoms? Still he did have a majestic air about him, an air of command – the Rangers worshiped him and Lodewijk – if on a commando with him – did the same. It simply felt natural to follow Aragorn.

The Flamand also robbed the bodies of valuables. The elves did not "stoop down" to this, he suppose they found anything passing yrch hands distasteful. So all the takings were his. Lodewijk did not care what the elves might think of this, he was fairly sure he was perceived as a form of some speaking low life anyway. He rationalised that he was saving for his old age.

One expedition left him with a sour taste in his mouth and some nightmares. After riding out in larger company than usual and several skirmishes they kept on going deeper into the mountains. The elves were as unreadable as ever while the Twins were visibly happy about something. At a certain point they called him and told him that today they will assault an orcish _den._ With visible excitement Elladan (or was it Elrohirr?) explained that catching orcs bands like they usually did was like squashing cockroaches running about – but today they will clean out a liar. With the _breeders_ and _spawns_. Killing the females and children was necessary, they said, as in an eye blink (Lodewijk wondered how many years that could be to an elf) they will grow up to be murderers like all their forbearers.

Storming the _den_ produced the most vicious fighting Lodewijk had ever experienced. Never before had the _yrch_ fought with such fury and determination. But their lack of skill was customary. He did not follow the elves underground, being useless in fighting in the dark. A sortie of _yrch_ desperately trying to break out almost bowled over the rearguard. Yet the elves held. Once the leading males and largest females were cut down it was slaughter of pregnant _yrch_ and females holding on to infants and toddlers.

This day he did not the stomach to search the corpses. He collected the weapons and some visible valuables only. His horse could barely carry the loot anyway. This was the first time he saw the Half-Elven Princes with expressions of contentment. They grinned and joked and talked animatedly with the elves.

Since kindergarten Lodewijk had a thing for petite, short blondes, so it probably was inevitable that the most beautiful woman he ever laid his eyes on was a wagneresque brunette almost tall enough to look him in the eye. Over a year into his stay at Imladris he ran into her next to a noisy waterfall where she was gliding along the path sniffing at a flower. For some inexplicable reason – elves seemed to have a policy to ignore him unless they wanted something from him - she spoke to him. He was sure she must have introduced herself and asked who he was – but more than half of what she had said was lost in the din – he only managed to catch her question about himself and that she was "star something". Calling her "gil" made her laugh and ask what would "star" be like in his language – it turned out she liked being called Stern.

* * *

Arwen looked at the completed Royal banner of Gondor. She gazed upon her work with satisfaction. Aragorn would look majestic under it, she thought warmly. Not that she was likely to ever see him beneath it, she thought with sadness. The Elvenstar gazed at the embroidered masterpiece and pondered her feelings and emotions. She finally made up her mind. Undomiel stood, picked up and folded the banner and strode away purposefully. She had to talk with a certain somebody. It would not the first such talk between them but for her it could be the last. She wanted a yes or no answer, not some blah blah about "things happening when they should" worthy of Mithrandir.


	6. Chapter 6

To Lodewijk's discomfort Stern's behaviour became suspiciously close to the definition of "to be hitting on someone". He preferred not to think that she was actually hitting on him. Too far fetched. And what if she had brothers? Lodewijk felt stalked, with her popping out from nowhere like cars in car accident insurance claims. He was worried that this would lead to trouble down the road. But he was so lonely ... So whenever she popped up he was glad to talk with her about everything and nothing, about life, likes and dislike, take walks together.

This time she intercepted him when he was returning from a quick rub in the stream after fashioning more knives from ex-orc junk. As not to offend elven sensibilities besides his shorts he was wearing an unlaced leather vest.  
Seeing his muscles covered with droplets reflecting the harsh mountain sunlight Stern asked Lodewijk with an incredulous tone in her low, lisping voice:  
"You took a second bath this moon?"  
The freckled Flamand guffawed.  
"No, _milady_. Fourth. This sennight. Whenever possible I bath every day. If necessary several times. "  
This revelation hit her like a poleaxe and she stumbled. The adan's hairy arm shot out to keep her from nose-diving into the gravel of the footpath.  
The elleth's long fingers, endowed with supra-human senses, were touching his clean, bare flesh while she hung on to his forearm and brought herself to vertical. She felt his vibrant spirit pass on through her porcelain skin into her body. Leaning on him Stern could _smell_ his cleanliness. It brought strange sensations in her lower abdomen area. She reminded herself of having beans for her repast and dismissed the sensations from her mind.  
"But isn't this unhealthy?" - She inquired thinking of her experience with the Dunedain who claimed _spiritual leakage_.  
The _adan_ chuckled.  
"No, it isn't. Of course, pre-teen and early teen boys claim that it is, that it will make their ... never mind ... but they grow out of it a few years later. Most girls would sooner" - he fished around for an appropriate expression – "kiss an _yrch _than a stinker. So they start to wash. It is wash and court" – by now he had learned the appropriate word for dating – "or not court at all."  
He noticed a pained expression on the dark haired beauty's face. She seemed to be hugging her middle.  
"Is something wrong, milady? Have you also had beans? Didn't agree with me either!" he patted his belly.

* * *

"_Ada_, I broke my betrothal to Aragorn."

"IMPOSSIBLE! A heart is given but once!" – Elrond the Wise was blinking beneath the double bands of his eyebrows and circlet.

"So I'm not an _elleth_ then – I'm a fickle _adaneth_" - Arwen said with steel in her voice.

"My heart is mine to give, if necessary to take back, and then to gift again to the one I love."

"I've waited over thirty years. I've had enough – I wish to have a family, husband and children. You denied me that with your demands on Aragorn. I loved him but he is too elf to go against your wishes and to give me what I need and desire. So my heart has moved on ..."

* * *

"Why the sigh?" – she kept on prodding until he bared himself to her.

"Sometimes I long for the sea."

"Oh, the _edain_ also experience sea longing, like the elves?"

"I don't think so ... but I think that before ... before loosing my memory I must have lived by the sea. I miss the sound of gulls screeching over their kills, their cawing in the wind, the salty taste on the lips ..." – he drew a deep breath.

"How romantic", the elleth cooed and leaned on his arm.

"This tugs at my soul", the Flamand continued, "I prefer being here, in the mountains. No gulls on the shore here. Pains me less." Feeling her warmth on his arm made him uneasy. He wrinkled his nose at her hair blown into his face and rubbed his ankles together to get rid of the need to sneeze.

"I ... I'd like to show you the sea some time. We could build sandcastles. We could swim. Maybe I could hire a boat ..." He warmed to the idea.

"I could fish off the boat and then we could roast the catch over a fire ..." Lodewijk began to drool when he mentally added French fries into the mix. He finally noticed the lack of pressure on his arm and turned his face towards the elleth. Stern was wide eyed and red faced.

"Swim?" she asked in a small voice.

"Oh, you don't swim", his voice equally small. Stern shook her head.

"Wouldn't that be ... unseemly?"

He glanced at her and was fairly sure the tips of her ears were _glowing_ red. Lodewijk groaned – he had blabbed again, disregarding the differences in mores between Belgium which has long enjoyed a relaxed attitude to exposing nontrivial amounts of the undraped female form and the neck-to-ankle coverage favoured by the elves. Meh, here the _ellyn_ he had squatted alongside for a crap while on orc chasing missions looked bashfully away when he put on shorts.

"From what I remember it would be seemly, the custom being to wear special swimming attire" he reassured her. A good thing she could not read minds as talking about this brought visions of tolerance of topless bathing and skimpy lower outfits for both sexes.

And then one lovely October morning came the Shattering Moment of Revelation.

The very glowy long haired blond Head of Security road in with a half-dead hobbit. Lodewijk, who chanced to witness his arrival, felt his stomach freeze and felt like retching.

NO!

He was in the War of the Ring!

He later caught Bilba who told him that everything is hush-hush but that the arrival was one Maura Labingi. His first cousin twice removed. Or second cousin once removed, Lodewijk was not sure. The resulting level of excitement did not abate and suddenly, after barely seeing a new face for four years, Imladris seemed swamped with new arrivals. More hobbits, strange elves, dwarves, a larger than usual contingent of Rangers. Lodewijk was happy to be at the peripherals of all that agitation, the visitors rarely venturing to the servant quarters where he dwelt. He was ignored, which was just the way he liked it, although the long haired blond Head of Security did give him a "sniff", one of the menial elves explaining that Lord Glorfindel was checking for "taint" in him. Fuck him.

He hoped that Stern – who had freaked him out over a year ago when she began slipping terms like "dearest" or "dear Esgaron" or finally - "my love" into their conversation, terms of endearment he heroically reciprocated - would "pop up" as was her custom and explain things to him. And confirm what he feared – that the Council of Elrond was about to happen and the Fellowship would set out the next day. What was he to do?!

Two months later Lodewijk was baffled – autumn had turned into winter, the twins, the Rangers, the Twins, many elves had ridden out. He himself spent a month on patrol. They were looking for the Emissaries of the Enemy, he was told. After a moment he caught on – the Nazgul! Yet the Fellowship was still cooling its heels in Imladris. So they did not set out immediately after all? A good thing it was the warmest winter he had seen in Middle Earth.

One day Stern sought him out and asked him to take a walk with her. They walked a bit and gazed at the stars a lot. They did not talk much but he felt her silence was pregnant with meaning. This made him nervous and his hands clammy.

After they had gazed at a particularly interesting star cluster for several minutes Stern broke the silence.

"Do you know naught of the Laws and Customs of the Eldar, love of my heart?" – the elleth whispered more as if stating a fact than asked a question, her hot breath caressing the cartilage of his ear.

As always her slight lisp unmanned Lodewijk. But the question worried him. All he knew of the Eldar was that they were a playable race in the WH40K Universe, he knew them from the Dawn of War RTS game, but surly these weren't the Eldar she was looking for. Or was she?

"No, my beloved Stern, I know nothing of it."

"Do you know what is to pass for an _elleth_ and _ellon_ to be together?"

Was she forward! Were his wildest dreams coming true? Or was he misreading the situation? Again?

Lodewijk would sooner slit his wrists and put a knife through his heart and die a violent death than admit to having seen all 52 parts of "Big Natural Wonders" or the "Pregnant Teens in Heat" series. So he just gulped and hoarsely whispered:

"I have some notion ..."

* * *

GASP!

"Arwen, your fea ..."

"Yes!" Arwen banged her meaty fist on the table.

"So you've finally noticed? Yes! I have made my choice!"

"How could you! I had not given you leave!" – the 6500 year old Elven Lord was screaming at his 2700 year old daughter at the top of his lungs.

"It was mine to make! I have had enough of waiting!"

* * *

Two days had passed since the fellowship left Rivendell. The short winter day was coming to a close and the Nine Walkers and Billy were making camp. The elven hearing of a certain blond prince picked up sounds of a man sized creature following their trail. Legolas flicked his eyes and put Aragorn and Boromir on guard. To their astonishment the creature walked openly into the clearing. Aragorn immediately recognised the mysterious _adan_ who had appeared out of nowhere at Imladris four years ago. He sighed - of all the people he'd like to see right now Esgaron was near the bottom of the list.

The slightly knackered Lodewijk (his backpack was heavy and he had been making good time to catch up) greeted them – they all knew him by sight from the Last Friendly House - and headed to the nearest convenient seat and plonked down. Looking at the incredulous and burning with curiosity nine pairs of eyes - and Billy's disinterested duet of hazel orbs - he explained:

"My wife advised me to join you. She said I'd be safer with you than at Imladris."

* * *

AN: "which has long enjoyed a relaxed attitude to exposing nontrivial amounts of the undraped female form" - I ripped this sentence off a site about tourism in the Netherlands.

elleth - she elf

adaneth - woman of the Race of Man; sometimes 2nd rate, the first rate being _dunadaneth_

_fea - _soul


	7. Chapter 7

The trek was a painful slog. To the physical discomfort one should add Aragorn's death glares, Legolas' aloofness, Boromir being an obnoxious git, and the endless twittering by Pippin. The Fleming came to blows with the Gondorian after he had ordered him to perform some menial task for him. Pippin's endless chatter worthy of a retarded five year old was made more bearable when – after cuffing the mindless twit on the back of the head – Lodewijk himself was boinked on the noggin with Gandalf's staff. The most sufferable companions were the down to earth Gimli and Sam, plus the mostly silent Frodo. He knew and heard them use their real names, of course, but he was so used to the movie names that he still called Maura - Frodo or Kalimac Brandagamba - Merry in his mind.

After Gandalf gave him the first demonstration of genuine magic by casting Chain Lightning at the Dire Wolves attacking them one night his respect for the Fighter-Mage went up in leaps and bounds. The fact that the Dire Wolves which he had fought - and felt his sword hit flesh – disappeared without a trace made him treat Middle Earth with even greater respect.

After surviving Moria he mumbled a prayer of thanks to the Virgin Mary and to Arwen which had equipped him with a hauberk and helmet. And for the sparing with Gimli.

* * *

"There are more coats of armour in the armoury then there are _ellyn_ in Imladris", she had said. "And I want you to come back to me", she pleaded hugging him. "Promise me you will come back, please."

He looked into her watery eyes and did what men going to war had done since time immemorial. He lied. With absolute conviction in his voice.

"Of course that I will come back. I promise."

The armour had kept him alive and his cleaver – another gift from his Stern – sliced and diced through orc flesh as if it wasn't there.

* * *

Once out of Khazad-dum he took the detour with Gimli, Merry and Sam to take a glimpse at the Holy Pond of the dwarrow. He wanted to cheer up the short fellow, distraught after discovering that his kin were dead. And Gandalf falling, too.

Then, after they entered the woods, Legolas got lyrical out of a sudden and extolled the properties of a stream with song. This made him bite on a twig as not to laugh as this brought to mind some "u sing prity Leggy. U sing vry prity 2 he siad n told Mariavleituriel that she was his 1 tru lurv n they sang together" fics he had seen.

Later, as they made camp Lodewijk slinked away. He washed himself in the Nimrodel, regardless of how cold the stream was as he could no longer bear the filth he had acquired during the trek. The water indeed was strangely invigorating. The Fleming had a feeling that besides goosebumps the bath had put on more hair on his chest and back. And gave him a raging hard-on too.

The Golden Wood had excellent border guards, he had to admit. No illegals here.

His grandmother in law freaked him out. Imagine an almost two metre tall woman with a "crazy cat lady" look about her!

And she addressed him as Lodewijk Smidje, a name he had not heard in the mouth of another for over seven years. That almost made him come apart. And when Galadriel projected the image of himself listening to the heartbeat and kicks of his firstborn in Stern's womb he barely bit back a howl and the desire to run back to her.

Later both Galadriel and her silver haired sidekick, the one of "tell me where is Gandalf, I much desire to speak to him" from the "They are taking the hobbits to Isengard" video fame - who apparently was called Keleborn and was her hubby - grilled him about Arwen and how come she ended up with_ him_, and not Aragorn as she was supposed to. Galadriel tried to read his mind but said that what she had sensed there confused and repulsed her. Whatever she had sensed – he hoped it had been "Ed, Edd n Eddie" or suchlike and not "Office MILFs".

During the canoeing part of the trip the Ring tempted him. Oh, how it called to him! It promised him a place of his own, it told him that he would no longer be a homeless wanderer with no home, no house to offer to his wife. To keep such thoughts away he sought some solitude and prayed and put images of Arwen in his mind to keep the Ring away. Still he was sleep deprived, edgy, jumpy, often given to snarling at the others. Not that they were much better, Boromir especially. A week out of Lothlorien Aragorn and Legolas dragged the two of them away from the camp and ordered to have a go at one another. A good, rough tumble in the dirt which left them spent and panting proved to be an excellent way of blowing off steam.

Then came the statues, the orc attack (PJ lied again, the tallest reached his chest), Boromir's death and the chase across Rohan. Eomer and his buddies were curious about him – what somebody looking like one of _them_ was doing in such suspect company.

Then the events ran more or less like in the film, usually less. During the Battle of the Hornburg he had been on the Deeping Wall when it was blown up and ended up in the caves together with Gimli and Eomer.

By the point when Aragorn's kinsmen and his brother-in-law _shudder _caught up with them after the visit to Saruman Lodewijk was no longer surprised by things being different than in the movies. He was now surprised when they were, actually. Seeing a tall, blond, although indeed pale faced Grima had broken him, he supposed. Not that it mattered anymore - did it agree with the movie or not. He was fighting for his life, his and Arwen's.

Riding back to the Hornburg the Fleming examined the Rangers – he had never seen so many Rangers at one place before. Between half a dozen and ten had been the maximum. And this was evidently a select, elite bunch. The men, all bearded and grim looking, made him think of the _sappeurs_ of the Foreign Legion he had seen in the transmissions of the Bastille Day parade in Paris. Like in Napoleon's day the sappers – with obligatory beards and leather aprons – were at the head of the column marching at a sedate, "can keep it all day" pace. Lodewijk now recalled the movie scene where the Nazgul-killing chick grilled Aragorn about irrelevant stuff like was he dating or something. What mattered was that he said he was eighty or ninety years old. If these blokes were anything like him then he, at twenty six and seven years of combat was a wet behind the ears toddler compared to them – they had been fighting _Yrch_ for fifty? sixty? more? years. And iff he never was to see another Stella Artois in his life the Ranger with the grey beard was over a hundred. Sweet Baby Jesus – in his world that would mean that the Ranger was a WWI veteran and still fighting today ... No wonder these guys were grim! What must they had seen during those years ... they indeed made the thirty-ish Riders look like boys. And to think that just before dropping into "here" he had seen a TV programme about PTSD among Iraq or Afghanistan veterans ...

At Hornburg the Twins dragged him into an alcove.

"Killing you would sadden our witless sister, so you will live. But you will pay for her choice, peasant."

Within seconds Lodewijk was a Peredhil punching bag. Flying punching bag. What he'd give to be Mike Tyson ... Mike Tyson?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Elladan – or maybe Elrohir – was writhing on the floor screaming with pain holding the remnants of his ear. His brother was torn between murdering their brother in law on the spot and helping his sibling. The ruckus brought about a posse of Eorlings which broke up the scuffle. Family reunion or not, the Heroes of Hornburg were not to be beaten into pulp.

Aragorn seemed quite glad to leave Lodewijk to the ministrations of the Eorlings. Isildur's heir gave him medical leave for a week and explained that he was incapable of the days of hard riding which lay ahead of what remained of the Fellowship.

After several days of rest and enjoying some hero warship – and having to explain that he was a married man so "no" - at the mountainside fortress – Lodewijk attached himself to a bunch of Riders heading to Dunharrow for the Muster.


	8. Chapter 8

Aragorn cast his plumbaceous orbs upon the kneeling woman. A princess grovelling in the dirt before him - surely his mother and Elrond had brought him up better than this! Regardless of how good it felt it simply was wrong. And the girl did make some good points – dying with a sword in her hand on the battlefield was preferable to captivity and death from abuse. The thought that Théoden and Eomer would be furious with him and deem this to be an abduction of maiden flashed through his mind. But he quickly put it aside – if they ride and win all will be pardoned. If they ride and die nothing will matter. At this point the Dunadan decided to make "_maquet avana na asieca lá maquet lavë_" the motto of his dynasty. Sounded good and might encourage study of Quenya.

"Arise, daughter of Eorl! Arise and lift your spear alongside mine! Together we shall skewer and gouge, kill and maim, for love and for hope in those Last Days!"

Several minutes later the Grey Company, plus Aragorn, one elf, two sons of Elrond, one dwarf and one woman of the Race of Men and their mounts disappeared under the Dwimberg, taking the dreaded Paths of the Dead.

* * *

During the battle Lodewijk fought in the ranks of Eomer's eodred. The other Riders were too busy to notice – or comment if they noticed – that he had "Merry" with him. At a certain point they charged and tried to run down the Fell Beast which had landed and massacred the King's _huscarls_. But, accompanied by the ear splitting and heart stopping shrieks of the Nazgul the animal rose heavily into the air before they caught it and the Riders could only wave their spears and swords at it in futile fury. The sight of the munched-upon body of his King and Uncle unhinged Eomer and – after some screaming in Rohirric and frothing at the mouth – he led a charge south, towards the docks of Harlond, without waiting for the sortie of heavy horse from Minas Tirith to catch up.

The Fleming kept half an eye – or rather ear – on the thereabouts of the Fell Beast and its equally fell rider. In the total mess of mixed up units from both sides he fought his way to the place he saw it descend. When he got there the Fell Beast was dead and the Witch King was bearing down on a helmetless, long haired blond Rider. Lodewijk jumped off his horse – which reared and refused to approach the Ringwraith - and charged the Nazgul Lord a moment after he had shattered the Rohirr's shield. His sword was swatted aside and the Fleming himself kicked up and back by the Nazgul. Yet this bought time for Merry to bury his blade, forged in the doomed Kingdom of Cardolan of old, in the lower back of the enemy, and for Eowyn to stab her sword between the crown and mantle. With a final scream of pain the Witch King was no more.

Lodewijk slowly composed himself and rose to his feet. A few yards behind Eowyn he noticed the body of one of the Rangers with a standard in his hand. Having just seen with what reverence the Eorlings had picked up and raised their Jumping Horse banner from amidst the corpses of Théoden's bodyguard he knew it mattered. He pried the staff out of the dead man's hand and waved the Colours above his head. The sight of the black Seven Star Spangled Banner of Gondor immediately raised a cheer from some friendly soldiers within sight. He hoped that some would rally to him and give him time to take a look at Eowyn and Merry. The waving, however, also attracted some of the nasties bent on offing him and the wounded Wraithbanes.

The first to reach him were three Haradrim, too many for him to handle. In a desperate move he draped the cloth over two of them while he disposed off the third. He then chopped off the sword arm - waving aimlessly about – of one of the blinded foes and skewered the third through the material just as the Southron had freed his head and arm from under the banner.

"Forgive me for the hole, my love" - he whispered.

Luckily for him the rest of the attackers came at him singly or in pairs and relief arrived quickly. First some Riders led by Eomer who raised an awful racket over his sister's body, then some Goose Knights, judging by the emblem on their tabards and shields. Lodewijk, still holding the Banner, noted that the older guy leading the Goose Knights' actually had some brains and CHECKED if Eowyn was _dead_ before turning on the audio and waterworks. She was not.

Meanwhile Lodewijk almost had been thrown to the ground when Elladan (the one lacking half an ear) tried to wrench the banner away from him, hissing.

"Too good for you, filth!" while jerking at the staff.

Some Riders and Goose Knights sprang to his defence, not understanding why a warrior they had just had seen defending the Seven Star Spangled banner with his life was having it forcibly taken away from him. Only the intervention of Eomer, the Goose Knights' boss and the just arrived Aragorn prevented a fistfight – or worse – between the Twin Sons of Elrond and Rangers on one side, and assorted Lodewijk's defenders on the other. With tempers short and amidst general "what the fuck is going on!" yelling the Fleming bowed and presented the standard to Aragorn. The standard which Arwen told him had taken her years to make was his, not the two twisted fucks'. The Heir of Isildur was magnanimous enough to accept it with a courteous nod. Then came the roar of :

"WHAT is she doing here, Ranger!"

Moments later the Fleming succumbed to the wiff of the Black Breath he had suffered. After coming to the next day, weak like a new born puppy, he soon found Eomer coming to his bedside. The new King of the Mark thanked him profusely for saving his sister. He also demanded Lodewijk to ask him of a boon, which he swore to grant as long as it was within his power.

"I ask for a home ..."

.

After the Army of the West had moved to Cormallen Lodewijk became restless and was ready to ride for Imladris to his beloved Arwen immediately. Nobody seemed to be able to talk any reason into him – he would ride the next day, alone if necessary. Finally Gandalf got through to him, asking to wait for Frodo to regain consciousness. Life at the camp was enlivened by the arrival of the mostly healed - her arm on a sling – Eowyn from Minas Tirith. This produced spectacular rows between her and Aragorn on one side and Eomer on the other over when and where they were to be wed. Autumn equinox in Edoras it was to be.

Once the Ringbearears and the Fellowship, Lodewijk included, were honoured before the gathered lords and captains of Gondor and the Mark, the Fleming set out on his journey north. He rode with a measure of goodwill from Aragorn, with an open invitation to come to Minas Tirith and be acknowledged before the court as one of the heroes of the Fellowship.

.

"You've come back, you've come back" – Arwen sobbed into Lodewijk's ear. He hugged her and rubbed his hands on her back and murmured how the mail and helmet she had given him saved his life. All he could think about at that moment was the woman he was holding in his arms and the child she carried.

And so it came to pass that on the longest day of 3019 Arwen Udomiel, the Evenstar, left Imladris. She never was to see the Last Homely House – or her father Elrond the Half Elven again.

The couple settled in the Westfold where Eomer king had granted them lands once belonging to Grima son of Galmod, placing them amongst the aristocracy of the Mark.

There the Flemish ex-welder and the ex-Evenstar lived a life typical of couples of their station. Typical, besides the oddity of riding off in summer to "visit places". Lodewijk personally hammered out "good luck" horseshoes and handed them out to those upset by having an elf as Lady of the Manor. That, plus the couple learning and using the Rohirric language went a long way in making them accepted. Lodewijk also made sure they respected - if not followed – local customs. He would not have it any other way. Their five children were brought up fluent in three languages. Besides his insistence on acknowledging local sensibilities he was happy to follow Arwen's lead – she knew much more about life in Middle Earth than he did after all.

At their hall bards sang of Eorl the Young and of Helm Hammerhand, and of the illustrious antecedents of the Lady of the House – of the shieldmaden Luthien challenging the Dark Lord for some jewels and saving her husband Marshall Beren, of the Kinslaying at the Mouths of Sirion where Bema had changed her grandmother Elwing into a gull to escape the Bad Elves, or of the Good Elves fighting the other Dark Lord, where her father had been chosen from amongst the High King's _huscarls_ to be the army's Standard Bearer.

* * *

Twenty years later, summer holidays

The sun was shining over a small boat anchored above a shoal in the Bay of Belfalas. Lodewijk finished gutting the catch and threw the entrails to the cawing gulls. He salted the fish and arranged them on the grate over the coals in the cooking sandbox. After washing his hands over the side he swaggered up to his wife, seated near the bow and peeling potatoes for French fries. He leaned over her while Arwen raised her lips to his. First chastely, then with ever more tongue. His roving hands soon left her very female form undraped while she tugged at his short's lacings and pulled them down. She stood up and Lodewijk knelt before her, burying his face in the soft flab of her belly, showering it with kisses while holding on to her love handles for balance. With her hands on his thinning, see-through scalp and tickled by his tongue on her navel she giggled –

"let's do it before the fish is ready."

Laughing, they slipped into the water for a swim.

* * *

AN:

maquet avana na asieca lá maquet lavë – according to the wonderful Jaxzan Proditor this means, more or less "it is easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission". If it does not, drop me a PM.

Auset's Tears betaed part of the work.

I think five children out of eight pregnancies growing to adulthood is a very good result for the era. Two sons and three daughters.

The three languages – Rohirric, Sindarin, Westron,


End file.
